


Enough

by Romiress



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: And a bunch of stuff you'd see in canon, Fix-it fic, M/M, Only it's still awful, Prologue Spoilers, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8741479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/pseuds/Romiress
Summary: An AU where Bjorn didn’t take that shot to the gut, and Askeladd doesn’t die either. That said, it’s not nearly as nice as it sounds, because no one gets off scot free.





	

“That isn’t mercy,” Bjorn says, anger swelling in his chest. He can’t get angry. Not at Canute. Not at the _king_ , who could have him murdered with a snap of his fingers. He’s in no position to defend himself, and he does his best to stomp the emotion down.

“He’s alive, so it’s mercy,” Canute says, cocking his head ever so slightly as he watches Bjorn’s reaction. There’s only the two of them--a fact that no doubt infuriated Canute’s new royal guard--but Bjorn can barely sit up, and the odds of him managing to so much as bruise the king are low.

His side aches just from talking. Regicide is beyond him, even if it apparently wasn’t beyond Askeladd.

“Better to have let him die with a sword in his hand then to doom him to life as a thrall,” Bjorn counters, the anger seeping into his voice despite his efforts.

Canute doesn’t respond, and Bjorn suspects that it’s because Canute knows that he’s right. What he’s done isn’t mercy. What he’s done is the greatest cruelty of all.

“I’ve seen to your care,” Canute says simply. “And left you with your spoils, rather than seizing them in the name of the crown. Consider it a thank you for your rescue of me earlier.”

It doesn’t feel right. The Canute before him doesn’t even seem like the same person as the Canute he saved. It feels like years ago, and even if it _was_  years ago, it still would feel like the king has changed too much.

He considers, right then, remind Canute about the truth of Ragnar’s death. But no good will come of it, and it will bring him no peace to do so.

If Askeladd lives, he must find Askeladd, and there is nothing else for him.

* * *

 

It isn’t as easy as just finding him. It takes months for Bjorn to have healed enough to walk, and longer still before he can travel. By then, whatever trail Askeladd might have left is long cold, and he has to go from nothing.

There turn out to be an alarming number of _Kingkillers_  when he begins his search. Askeladd’s reputation is writ large, and everyone seems to have an opinion on the matter. It takes him two months to track down _Askeladd Kingkiller_ , who turns out to be an old slave tied in a barn. The man who owns him charges people to throw fruit at him, and Bjorn suspects that he truly believes the man is the man who killed the king.

It is a dead end, but only the first of many.

He follows lead after lead, going from village to village. He tries not to let himself be bothered by the things people say, but it isn’t so easy.

They don’t know Askeladd, he reminds himself, but when he lies awake at night he’s reminded that he didn’t either.

Not really.

The longer he travels, the fewer leads he finds. The public loses interest in the man who killed the king. They have other things to worry about, and day to day life to tend to, and he finds fewer and fewer people willing to speak to him.

It isn’t until he interrupts a robbery in progress that he gets any leads at all. It’s been years since he’s seen battle, but his body hasn’t forgotten. Even if he’s slower than he was, he’s more than a match for the two bandits, and they’re dead before they realized what was happening.

The family he’s saved help him to their home and serve him dinner, and when he asks them what they’ve heard of the Kingkiller, they have two stories to tell.

The first takes him a month’s travel to the east, and ends with him standing over a grave. Even though this Kingkiller is dead, he digs him up anyway, desperate to know for sure. But the man in the grave is several inches taller than Askeladd ever was, and the trail goes dead. Bjorn is forced to turn his attention to the second, following the trail to a neglected village.

The Kingkiller is there, one of the men tells him. Out in a barn, owned by a man who won him in a bet a year past. The entire story sounds implausible, but Bjorn has already followed too many ridiculous leads to ignore the story.

He pays a coin to see the Kingkiller and is shown to a barn and left alone, the slave’s owner giving him a nasty smile.

It isn’t that there’s no familiarity, but instead simply that he doesn’t _want_  to believe. The man before him cannot be Askeladd. Even though he has the same shape, the same scars, the same light hair, Bjorn does not want to believe. The man before him is a twig, rotted down to nothing but skin and bones, his pale flesh mottled with bruises. Someone has painted a crude word for what the man is on the metal of the collar, and he wears nothing at all.

There were shackles on his wrists once, the scars still visible from where the man fought against them, but now he lies in the hay unbound. There’s dry semen smeared beside lips so red and painful looking that Bjorn hurts just looking at them, and much worse between the man’s legs. There’s blood and mess there, and even standing over him Bjorn can tell that he’s only seeing a fraction of it.

The man stares up at the ceiling, unseeing. His eyes are open, but there’s no spark of life in them, and if not for the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest he’d assume he was dead.

Bjorn tries to barter for the man in the barn with the man who owns him, but he refuses to sell. It’s not until Bjorn makes clear that he is leaving with the man, one way or another, that he names their price.

The price is so low it makes Bjorn want to cry, but he pays it anyway and goes out to collect his purchase.

He finds an inn several towns away, carrying the small bundle to the room he’s given. He has the owner draw a hot bath even though it’s not yet Saturday, and then slowly unwraps the still form, sliding him into the bath.

The slave in the bath gives no sign he’s even aware that he’s being washed.

It isn’t until he reaches the slave’s feet that he finds the worst of it. Thick scars marr the back of each ankle, and it takes only a quick glance for Bjorn to realize what they are. Someone--years ago, by the looks of it--has cut the slave’s hamstrings. He will never walk again, and a hobble will be the best he can do.

It takes effort to remove the collar, thick and spotted with rust as it is. When he finally gets it off, the skin beneath it is sickly and white, a perfect circle of neglected flesh.

Bjorn’s heart breaks for the thousandth time.

It is Askeladd, even if he doesn’t want to believe it. He’ll eat if he’s prompted, and he’ll do his business if nudged, but there’s no reaction and no recognition. He’s a shell, and Bjorn decides that his travels are over.

He finds a village that won’t ask too many questions and makes it his home. He tells the people there that Askeladd is his brother, and no one bothers to ask any questions beyond that.

It isn’t the life he expected to live, but he accepts it anyway. 

Askeladd doesn’t improve. He stays still and unmoving, but even so Bjorn worries every time he leaves him. He worries that one time, he’ll return to find that something has gone wrong, only nothing ever does.

It isn’t the same as it was, and he knows it won’t ever be.

“You should have left me to die,” comes a voice out of the blue. It’s so unexpected that Bjorn drops the knife he’s cooking with onto the floor, cringing at the sound.

He’s hallucinating.

But when he turns, he isn’t hallucinating. Askeladd is there. More than that, Askeladd is _there_. His body is turned, his eyes no longer glazed, his expression edging towards anger.

“You should have left me to die,” Askeladd repeats, and Bjorn realizes he’s simply been standing there staring like a madman.

“No,” Bjorn says, and his voice feels like it’s cracking. It’s been so long since he’s said more than a few words to someone, and even longer since he said words he actually _cared_  about. “I shouldn’t have.”

Askeladd turns away to stare out the window. Bjorn doesn’t even remember having crossed the room, but suddenly he’s there, standing beside Askeladd’s chair as he reaches down, wrapping his arms around him as he pulls Askeladd to his chest.

Askeladd has been awake for a while, he understands. He isn’t foolish enough to believe anything else. But he doesn’t care about that, and doesn’t say anything more.

As long as Askeladd stays with him, it’s enough.


End file.
